


The Wedding Bed

by Edralis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Stannis POV, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edralis/pseuds/Edralis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis broods on his wedding night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wedding Bed

“I didn’t mean to slight you, brother,” he had said. Stannis believed him. He believed his brother when he said he didn’t _mean_ anything by it, because for it to mean something he would have to actually consider what he was doing, have to think about it.But Robert didn’t ever _think_ – of anything, or of his brother – he just _did_. Inexplicably, _what_ he did somehow always tended to bring new followers to his side. Or slight Stannis, or, oftentimes, both.

 

No, Robert didn’t _mean_ to slight him. Somehow, it just came effortlessly, naturally to him, and however angry Stannis was, he was neither hurt nor surprised. It was just exactly something he would expect his brother to do.

 

The room had been hastily refurbished – the sheets probably burnt, the pillows fluffed up again, the trodden-on rose petals removed, and fresh ones had been scattered around on the bed instead of them.

 

Yet when he found himself sitting by his bride’s side on that bed, it seemed to him all that _fixing_ only served to mock him further, to exacerbate his humiliation. He felt sickened, by all of it – by his brother, this room and the phony scented sheets, his silent, compliant and useless bride, herface red and ugly from crying. He hated her in that moment – for her silence, her tears, her weakness. It wasn’t that he expected something else from her – yet still he felt an absurd kind of disappointment that confused him, on top of all the other unpleasantness.

 

He was disgusted by the mere idea of touching her, under this bed’s canopy. But there was no way out of this room, no other way to proceed, no other option for him to even consider. The hard lump in his throat seemed to throb with indignation, hot and hopeless, and it made his fists clench and his jaw to set.

 

_She_ didn’t seem to understand any of it. She didn’t stop crying, and they haven’t said a word to each other.

He hated that sound, the muffled sobs. He hated her all the more for them, for not understanding it was not about _her_.

 

He unbuttoned his doublet, wordlessly. She didn’t move, just clutched her hands in her lap, her eyes cast down.

 

He hated it when he had to speak up, tell her to go on and take off her gown, and even he himself was discomfited about how cold his voice sounded. She obeyed him, undressing quickly, folding her dress and laying it down on the dresser at the foot of the bed.

 

„I am sorry,“ she said. She met his eyes then, but her own were glazed over and her quivering lip reminded him of a wounded animal waiting to be dealt the final blow – and he was the one expected to swing the blade. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I want only to please you. To be a good wife to you. I wanted for you to love me. But now...you hate me...“

 

_I_ _do._

 

„I don’t understand.“ he said.

 

She was wailing in earnest now, her chest heaving with hysterical sobs. _What am I_ _to do with her?_

„Get yourself together, woman. We have a duty to attend to.“ He stood up and poured her a glass of wine, and she took it with a sob and a squeaky „thank you, my lord“ and drank. After she finished the glass, he took it from her and put it back, and then he sat down on the bed once more, and listened to her stifling her sobs for what seemed like an eternity.

 

„It’s not your fault,“ he said weakly.

Again she said, „thank you,“ and she managed to force up a smile, grotesque on her puffy, red face.

 

She took his hand then, her fingers white and long and bony, and squeezed. He wished she would let go, but stayed silent. After a while, she did. She stood up and went to the washing basin in the corner, out of his sight, poured water from the ewer, and scrubbed her face for a long time. He didn’t look, but he could hear it all, the clink of metal on metal, the trickle of water, her hands rippling its surface.

She came back, her face pink, a forced smile on her face, and she kneeled by his side, clasping both his hands with hers. Her hands were cold, clammy.

“I will be a good wife to you. I promise. We shall have many sons together, and all the shame that we had to suffer tonight will be forgotten. My cousin will rot in the seven hells for what she’s done.”

 

Stannis was tired. He wanted to be alone back in his room, with a book by the hand, but not reading, just thinking, savoring the time alone. No older brother to shame him, to best him, no younger brother with childish needs and all the attention. Just himself, Stannis, and his thoughts. He wanted to be alone, but it did not matter. He was not Robert, doing whatever pleased himat the moment, responsibility and consequences be damned – or utterly forgotten to even exist or matter. Neither was he Renly, a child of fleeting fancies and effortless charm that everyone adored despite not ever having done anything of consequence, and caring about nothing else than himself.

 

For better or worse, he, Stannis, _cared_ about his family’s name, about doing what was right, about truth, and justice, and responsibility. About duty. And right now, that duty consisted of him undressing and touching this girl stranger, this pitiful miserable creature, on a bed stained by his brother’s own seed.

 

_He always wins. Whatever I_ _do, whatever I_ _don_ _’_ _t do, he always wins._

 

The girl yielded to his touch and he found – to his relief – she was much more responsive to his wordless requests than before. So no words needed to be spoken, and none were.

 

Apart from a few stifled gasps, she stayed quiet the whole time, and when it was done, she remained lying where she was, she just pulled her skirt back down.

There was some blood on the sheets, and on her chemise, and on himself, too. Somehow, it made the whole act seem more substantial, more real, like clutching a bloodied sword after battle.

 

„It is done,“ he said, his voice catching a bit, and he got off the bed.


End file.
